


unraveled words like moths

by configurations



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, PartyGate2k15, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/configurations/pseuds/configurations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obviously something like this would happen to him, because why the fuck wouldn't it, and--</p><p>Hold the fuck up.</p><p>Was Ryan wearing a fucking Gremlin costume?</p>
            </blockquote>





	unraveled words like moths

**Author's Note:**

> #partygate2k15
> 
> wrote this at like 3 am as the whole thing was unfolding on my dash lmfao enjoy

It's obvious something like this would happen to him.

He's at Maroon 5's halloween party, the house a cacophony of noise and laughter that bled into the music in the background. The faint but ever present scent of alcohol mixed with sweat and heavy cologne hung in the air. Someone behind Brendon giggles, another pushes him and he stumbles a bit before getting his footing. He's suddenly grateful for the makeup caked on his face, as opposed to only dreading the cleanup afterwards, because--

If someone could see his expression free of the skeleton get-up, when his gaze meets with non other than Ryan fucking Ross an arm's length away from him.

Obviously something like this would happen to him. He vaguely wonders if he should go back to church because obviously God hates him.

Some guy dressed as a giant yin and yang symbol is slumped against Ryan's shoulder, visibly shitfaced, a pink-haired girl laughing away in front of him, the red plastic cup crinkling in her hand and spilling over.

And he's face to face with Ryan.

Why wouldn't something like this happen to him? Before he even has time to react or _get the fuck away_ or do anything at all, the pink haired girl reaches over Ryan's shoulder and introduces herself, her speech slightly slurred. Brendon doesn't quite get her name.

"Brendon," he replies politely, shaking her hand, determinedly staring at anywhere but Ryan, and--

 

Hold the fuck up.

_Was he wearing a fucking Gremlin costume?_

 

"Are you wearing a fucking Gremlin costume?" Brendon blurts out before he can catch himself, before he can just walk the fuck away and pretend he never even saw him, but now he's staring back into Ryan's eyes and at his ridiculous fucking costume. Ryan flinches just a fraction of an inch, and Brendon's not sure why that felt good. He straightens his back a bit more. Ryan's mouth open and closes, trying to formulate a reply, the yin and yang dude now yelling to someone across the room. Brendon stares at him steadfastly and vaguely feels triumphant when Ryan looks away, and he hates it. He hates himself for-- for being like this, for not just turning the fuck away, but then again, he's not 20 anymore. Also, he is slightly drunk, so his impulse control may be slightly off. Ryan meets his gaze again and Brendon doesn't falter.

They stare at each other like that, amidst the hustle and bustle of the party around them, dozens upon dozens of scantily clad bodies pressed up against each other in an alcohol-induced blur.

And after an eternity and over, they laugh.

Well, Brendon does first, anyway. He cracks first. It bubbles in his chest and rises up to his throat and bursts out before he can stop himself, and then he can't stop giggling, his shoulders shaking from it. Ryan follows suit, his voice scratchy, and Brendon finds himself leaning in towards the sound and has to mentally stop himself, and God he fucking hates it, but it's been five years. Five years since he last saw Ryan or heard his voice, five years since that random and short-lived run in at that restaurant. It's been five years since either of them saw each other, a far cry from when they used to spend mornings pressed up close in shadowy bunks, whispers of long-forgotten promises passed back and forth like vows, when they used to spend all night being together and doing absolutely nothing and everything.

And Ryan's dressed as a fucking Gremlin.

Brendon's pretty sure Ryan's laughing for the exact same reason-- he's, he's pretty sure. Ryan's always-- Ryan's--

Yeah. He knows Ryan.

He's pretty sure the universe is laughing at them too. God too, for extra measure. Brendon rises back up from where he doubled over from laughing so hard to see a pale, lanky hand extended out from underneath patchy white and brown synthetic fur.

"Ryan Ross," he says, and Brendon hates him. "Nice to meet you."

And of course Brendon shakes his hand, his fingers curling over the heavy metal rings on Ryan's fingers.

"Brendon Urie," his voice cracking on it. He coughs over his shoulder. He hates him. "And you too," and he hates him, he hates him, he _hates_ him.

Ryan grins, something soft and so utterly detached from the surrounding they're in, from the time they're in, and they're back in Seattle, they're back at a show wearing too many layers of frilly clothing, they're back at band practice at Spencer's grandma's place, they're back in the darkness of the bus, they're back anywhere and everywhere but here, right now. Brendon wants to say something. He doesn't. The moment passes.

"C'mon Ry, I think I saw someone dressed as fuckin' Godzilla over there!" the pink haired girl says excitedly and begins to tug on Ryan's(and by extension, the yin and yang guy's) arm. Ryan waves at him goodbye, his expression morphed into something Brendon can't quite place a finger on, and he feels something hot clench and unclench deep in his belly. He watches as Ryan's back retreats into the distance, giant Gremlin ears flopping around every step of the way. He thinks he looks back. He probably didn't.

Suddenly all at once, Brendon's exhausted. He dreads the next Periscope he'll do because of course someone will find out. Because God hates him. Because of course something like this would happen to him in 2015.

He hates Ryan, he thinks, but the edge has worn off. The words pool in his head and threaten to spill. He hates Ryan and his ridiculous unkempt hair and scratchy beard and long slender fingers with too-big rings on them, fingers that fit perfectly in his hands as they did six, seven, ten years ago; a lifetime ago, really.

And he hates his Gremlin suit. He feels his lips quirk up a bit at the thought of it and chastises himself. He hates his Gremlin suit. His ridiculous, furry oversized carpet of a halloween costume. Complete with giant rubber feet. He hates it. It's so Ryan, he thinks in the back of his mind, and mentally kicks himself. He hates it.

The moment passes. He goes to get another drink.


End file.
